UNCOVERING GAY HAVANA, CUBA

UNCOVERING GAY HAVANA, CUBA After a 45-minute flight, we land on the cracked-concrete runway of José Martí International Airport, walk off the plane onto a seemingly deserted airstrip, and are greeted by a white bust of revolutionary José Martí. BY JOSEPH PEDRO

In old Havana there is a tree that’s said to be older than the city itself. It was here, though it was very young, when the Taíno people would worship, venerate, and respect her as Ancient Mother. It was here too, though a little older now, in 1519 when the Spanish first established a settlement. The land was claimed, right beside her growing roots, as San Cristóbal de la Habana. She provided shade for the first mass and bestowed a breeze for the first council meeting. And as she reached toward the heavens, so did a city. Becoming resilient and strong, prosperous and wealthy, devout and ideological—she soon had a home overlooking churches and plazas, statues and mansions that rivaled those of Europe. She felt the breeze of independence and briefly felt it taken away from her. As times changed, though, she witnessed the plight of the Cuban people under a dictatorship and felt the mumblings of revolution brush through her leaves. Then, in 1959, as winter drew to an end she was here still to feel the rumbling of a tank shake her roots to usher in spring and a new hope for her land. More than half a century later, the wind again sways her branches and one of her leaves falls in 2014, twirling like a Sky Dancer, landing flatly on my head.

I am about to visit Havana, Cuba for a whirlwind three-day trip, and I decide before boarding a charter flight from Miami to José Martí International Airport, to drop the veil on my parochial American upbringing, to observe and reflect on a country that has persevered through difficult times, and embrace (not criticize) its convictions. Of course, actually being in Havana, exploring, and meeting the people, I am forced to modify this original declaration. Havana lends itself to open-minded tourists who should be curious about the political system, who want to question the state of the city, and who will dig deeper into the country’s modern-day ethos while understanding its past. And once you find yourself sharing a mojito with a local, you may be surprised to see just how open and honest they are about their lives and their country. As my journey unfolds, I find the city to be a living testament of its history and ideals, and I meet a proud people who have the strength to overcome obstacles that the modern-day traveler may not realize still exist.

I am able to visit Cuba because of loosened travel restrictions on citizens of the USA thanks to a recent change in policy encouraged by President Barack Obama. Now, tour companies are allowed to operate in the island nation as long as they are licensed through the juggernaut education-based travel program called People to People. My trip is booked through Pride World Travel, a member of the IsramWorld portfolio of brands, which is beginning their LGBT-focused tours of Cuba in 2015. Because these are educational trips, Americans are still at the mercy of the Cuban government that works to organize specific itineraries for each group. If you don’t feel like going along with the plans, too bad. As long as the official government itinerary is in play, you’re required to be with your group. But as I learn during my trip, there is a leniency depending on your guide. Luckily, my itinerary is relaxed and filled with a steady stream of good food, fascinating people from the LGBT community (including my guide), and even time to relax at the gay beach.

I highly recommend visiting through a well-established tour company like Pride World Travel. The company handled every little detail of the trip. Having all the correct documents is especially nerve-wracking for Americans visiting Cuba. The night before we depart from Miami, a representative hands me a packet with everything I need. From a formal letter granting me access and a visa to the required Cuban-issued health insurance— everything is organized. Also, I receive the VIP treatment at the Miami airport when, instead of waiting in line for the charter flight, a representative greets us, takes our bags, and hands us all the required customs forms that we’ll need to enter Cuba.

After a 45-minute flight, we land on the cracked-concrete runway of José Martí International Airport, walk off the plane onto a seemingly deserted airstrip, and are greeted by a white bust of revolutionary José Martí. Once through the doors, we are escorted into a flickering neon-lit room filled with guards. I am so glad I have the paperwork in order. The buildup and anxiety are unnecessary. The pleasant (and handsome) agent takes my whole packet, stamps my passport (though I am told you can request a separate sheet to be stamped), and I walk through the door into the baggage claim area. Only one person in my group is taken aside for further questioning (this is routine), but he rejoins us a few minutes later. s Our on-the-ground tour company, Havana Tours, which is government owned, whisks us through customs and takes us straight to a van. “Welcome to Havana,” shouts our guide, Oscar, who will be with us for the entire trip. He quickly begins pointing things out, but it’s hard to pay attention. I’m in CUBA, keeps repeating in my head. CUBA! The old 1950’s American-made cars rumble by us, but they aren’t exactly like the ones in pictures. Most are beat-up, rusted, and loud, but they are still so sexy and filled with men and women cruising with the windows down.

“Here’s a school,” he says pointing to a Creamsicle-orange building with kids in white uniforms playing tetherball in the clay ground surrounded by a lush baseball field. A propaganda billboard proclaiming “We Have Socialism” with a picture of revolution leaders serves as their backdrop. “All education up to a master’s is free in Cuba,” he proudly exclaims. We all collectively shake our heads thinking of our enormous student debts.

When we exit the turnabout plaza the street becomes a gorgeous, Spanish-inspired boulevard with a tree-lined pedestrian median. Here is where I get my first glimpse of the effects of Cuba’s political and economic climate. Each side of the avenue is lined with one stately mansion after another even-more-impressive mansion. Large gates open to reveal overgrown tropical flora and gorgeous Italianate-like buildings. Each, though, has been weathered by the climate forcing their colors to fade, but their beauty, and significance can easily still be admired. “The people who lived here,” our guide half-smirks, “Weren’t too happy about the Revolution.” And you can understand why. “Oh, what the gays in New York could do to this street,” one other guest quips.

As the avenue curves toward the sea, we see our massive hotel, Meliá Cohiba Hotel Havana.

Through the tour company, we have VIP service and are brought to “The Level,” a special check-in area with a private concierge (you’ll be able to exchange your US dollars here for the local currency, the Cuban Convertible Peso or CUC). My accommodations are unexpectedly large; it’s a corner room with surrounding windows. I open the curtains, running around my room pulling them to reveal a stunning view of the sea. A large bed, two televisions (which get international channels), a Jacuzzi tub, and most amenities one would expect, including Wi-Fi (for a hefty price), from a modern hotel. We also take delight in the multiple restaurants, the outdoor pool on the second floor, the large gym/sauna, and the attention-to-every-detail customer service.

Celebrating our first night, we literally feast at a palador (privately owned restaurant) called La Moraleja. We walk down a lighted, trellised path to an indoor/outdoor dining area. The owner happily greets us and lets us see his extensive wine collection. Importing more than a couple bottles is illegal so this assortment has taken him and his father many years to collect. Havana Tourism representatives meet us and, in a grand show, we dine on chicken, lamb, lobster, traditional rice and beans, fried yucca, clams, shrimp, and fried cheese. It’s obvious, knowing a bit about the food rationing that the socialist system in Cuba uses, that our local company doesn’t normally dine this way (of course, we don’t either). I’m hesitant to talk about it, but a fellow traveler outright asks, in a non-disrespectful way: “You’re not used to eating like this are you?”

“No!” they all say laughing. Their candid response gives us our first glimpse at the openness of the Cuban people. Our hosts freely explain the ration books and what that gives them: rice, beans, and eggs. Taking a bite out of a lobster tail one says: “It’s why we are so lucky to have been placed in tourism.” It’s a sobering moment, and we consider asking for our food to go so we can share it with others. “No, no, no,” they insist, “You can leave it for the staff at the restaurant.”

The conversation never treads on awkward, which is refreshing. We compare apartment prices, talk about their travel restrictions, the new iPhone, if they ever figured out how Whitney Houston died, and if New York is just like the movies. The owner is happy we’re visiting too. To show his appreciation, he lights us Cuban cigars and brings us beautiful rum. Taking a pull on the cigar, I think to myself: I could get used to this.

After dinner, according to our official program, we’re to meet an activist group. So I am surprised when we arrive at a nightclub named after the award-winning Cuban-produced gay movie Strawberry and Chocolate called Café Fresa y Chocolate. Inside, there is a band waiting for us called Aceituna sin Hueso. This café by day is attached to the Cuban Film Institute and is a regular hangout for the arts community (a.k.a gay), but at night, particularly once a month, the band (not exactly an activist group) performs. “It’s a place where everyone feels safe,” the bombshell lead singer Miriela Moreno tells me. By looking around, you can see many more lesbian couples than gay men sitting at the tables drinking Crystal beer. For non-Spanish speakers, Moreno’s music is still easily understood through her palpable soul-crushing passion and the get-up-and-dance beats by her band. The group, who has traveled abroad to Spain to perform, uses their lyrics to send anti-homophobia and anti-prejudice messages, she tells me. I quickly develop a straight crush on her as I gulp down several Bucanero beers while watching them completely turn the small café into a Miami Beach–style club.

A driver picks me up in the morning in a 1950’s canary-yellow, convertible Buick Dynaflow—it’s that Havana moment I’ve read about. He honks his horn to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw” as we drive down the waterfront street called the Malecón. His horn pulsing to the rhythm of the sea attracts the attention of the early-morning fishermen who turn their attention away from their poles and give us a wave. The Cuban flag proudly waves in front of a grand monument to Cuban Independence hero Antonio Maceo Grajales who sits tall on his horse looking over the city. The car breezes past the José Martí Anti-Imperialist Platform, the site of tense anti-American protests, particularly during the Elián González affair. We pass the statue of González’s father holding a small Elián and pointing to the United States Interests Section’s glass-covered building. Even while pointing it out, our guide is never awkward about US and Cuban relations.

I take in my first views of the famous buildings along the Malecón. Weathered by time, the buildings seem different depending on how the early-morning sun hits them. The sun’s struggling to pierce through the dark clouds overhead, and the lighting reveals splendid patterns, architectural accents, and varying states of decay and renovation. But most of all, I think, it reveals a color spectrum that my eyes are unaccustomed to seeing in New York. It reminds me of the colors from a PAAS Easter egg coloring kit, each egg always turned out to be a new and exciting shade. The row of buildings is peppered with new projects, including a new government-owned hotel, which gives me hope that this once-grand waterfront will be revitalized.

We then turn onto an unassuming street. In accordance with our itinerary, we’re to “Visit Paloma Project which promotes gender equality (part of the Cuban Institute of Cinematographic Art and Industry and meet with the Director Lizette Vila.” A woman, no taller than 5’2″, reaches her arms out for a hug as we reach the wrought-iron arched entrance, and a lumbering dog lifts his head at the upcoming excitement. She hugs each of us like a long-lost relative and leads us through the well-manicured front garden and into the building. Trinkets (witches, clocks, sage, figurines) and old photos (Castro, trans* activists, famous singers) dot the walls, and we carefully try not to disturb the large Santaria (local religion) shrine on the floor that’s filled with hopes, dreams, and prayers. We’re brought into a small room and offered tea and cookies, and we kindly accept (it is considered bad form not to enjoy specially prepared food).

One by one, new people enter and sit with us in a tiny windowless room. We form a circle and exchange those awkward first-meeting smiles. Lizette Vila enters the room and goes around introducing everyone. “This is Milena and Juani Santos,” she says pointing to an older gentleman and a young lady. “Juani is the first transgender person in Cuba, and Milena has recently transitioned and is the focus of an upcoming documentary,” she nonchalantly shares as our jaws nearly hit the floor.

She then continues and introduces Isabel Blanco, a famous ballerina who now teaches acceptance and empowerment through dance; Ingrid Leon, who produces documentaries about woman’s rights and has just completed the documentary about Milena; and Teresa de Jesús Fernández who works for the government’s gay-rights agency, Cenesex.

For a gay journalist, this room is a jackpot. I am ready to fire off question after question, but it never becomes a structured interview, it becomes a wonderful discussion that doesn’t lend itself to an uncomfortable middle-of-the-room recorder. We drop formalities, and we talk, connecting with each other, undistracted like pre-iPhone days. We learn of Juani’s struggles growing up as the only girl among boys and how he has found acceptance from his brothers after having pioneering surgery in Copenhagen. Milena tells us about being kicked out of her home and finding the government-supported resources and government-provided medical treatments to make her into the woman that she always knew she was. Ingrid discusses the difficulties of creating documentaries in Cuba and the thrill of watching her controversial pieces air on the state-run television channel and her hopes to show them at international festivals.

It is Lizette Vila, whose passion for her work, her openness, and her intelligence that captivates my attention most. Moving her hands with wild gesticulations, reminding me of my Italian grandmother, she discusses each person in the room’s successes and troubles. Her empathy and her understanding go far beyond the goal of the organization, which is to advance equality through the arts. While her ideas on feminism and the LGBT community seem quite progressive, even radical, she insists that they are in line with the beliefs of many other people in the country, including Mariela Castro, the director of Cinesex, and the daughter of President Raúl Castro.

She likens Cuba to a strong, fertile, and beautiful woman whose resilience in the face of revolution and embargoes continues to inspire her and the arts community. And while she is lucky to travel around the globe and meet with LGBT and feminist leaders, she continues to thank socialism. “It’s because of socialism and the Cuban government that we exist,” she tells us while placing her arm on my shoulder.

After long hugs and countless photos, our driver and Oscar have to nearly pull us away, despite the excitement of our next stop, the gay beach.

Apparently, it is highly unusual for the government to give visitors who are part of a planned tour such free time. After realizing that there may be some leniency in their rigid schedule, I beg, like the literary nerd I am, that our driver stop by Ernest Hemmingway’s home where he wrote Old Man in the Sea. I am told that after Hemmingway’s children came to see it recently, they closed it for renovations. As our van heads down a village street, I begin to smell the salt water. Little shops and restaurants dot the street, and men and women walk carelessly through the middle of the road with fishing poles. In front of us is an old and crumbling Spanish fort, long docks that seemingly stretch to nowhere, and a round, baby-blue plaza with a bust of Hemmingway. A man sings “Guantanamera” alone, children run up to us shouting “amigo,” and an old woman sits, legs crossed, dwarfed by the fort, gazing out. “This is Cojimar, where Hemmingway was inspired to write his novel.” Oscar tells me. Sitting here by the bust, as I hand Tootsie Pops to the children to quiet them, and watch fishermen row back into the docks looking miniscule compared to the ocean, and I can see how Hemmingway fell so in love with this town, the mysteries of Cuba, and, more importantly, the sea. “But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favors, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them,” he wrote in Old Man in the Sea in 1952.

I’ve made everyone late to the beach (by Cuban standards) as people usually begin leaving around 4 P.M., but it’s still filled with fresh-face tanned youths sipping Cuban rum, and parsnip-colored tourists lounging in rented chairs protected by rainbow-colored umbrellas. “Mi Cayito is a place where the gay community can really be free,” Oscar tells us as a couple of transwomen walk by topless. We find a comfy spot and make our way into the crystal-blue Caribbean waters while the locals ogle at our foreignness. Unlike other gay beaches in the Caribbean, this feels empty and safe (though I would, of course, use common sense). We begin to recognize a familiar cast of characters who proudly promenade up and down the sand runway sporting everything from thongs to one pieces, holding hands, swigging glass rum bottles, kissing, and celebrating life. We easily chat with locals who are interested in why we’re visiting, and we excite them when we say how much we have always wanted to visit Cuba, their home.

As the sun begins to set, it casts that oh-so-picture-perfect tint of colors only found in the Caribbean.

That night, Oscar takes us for a stroll along the Malecón where under the moonlight miles and miles of men and women sit along the waterfront during the weekend. The massive crowds and the people’s carefree no-rush attitude impress me. The whole idea of hanging with friends to just sit on a ledge and talk the night away seems so foreign. As cell phones are quite expensive and most social-media websites are blocked, nobody is looking at tiny computer screens. They are engaged, interested, and more importantly valuing each other’s time together. Gay groups sit among the straight couples, and you’ll easily notice them by their not-so-discreet gazes. As we walk to another “cruising” area, every crevice or ledge is filled with people. We rest under a dark and Sleepy Hollow-esque statue of “Don Quixote in Vedado” and eavesdrop on Spanish conversations (my Spanish teacher would be so proud I picked up the word bottom, pasivo).

Havana’s gay scene and nightlife doesn’t just take place on the streets. Oscar takes us to a place called Café Cantante below the Nacional Theatre that’s hosting an event called il Divino. First, I visit the top of the building that overlooks the lit-up Plaza de la Revolución where an illuminated Che Guevera and Camilo Cienfuegos act as guardians over the cars rolling around the circle. Downstairs, tables are set up, and, slowly, people begin to trickle in. It’s illuminated like a 90’s roller rink, and we’re hardly expecting much modern music, or much at all. Then the DJ plays US Top 40 with videos projected on both sides of the stage, and by half past midnight, the oh-so-sexy crowd has overtaken the seats and the bar is packed. A host comes on speaking machine-gun Spanish, getting the crowd fired up. He shouts out to us few Americans, Germans, Spanish, and then a dance number ensues. We’re mesmerized and watch a string of performances, while doing our best talking to the locals. I learn quickly that buying a beer is way more effective than chitchatting. We ask when the famous drag queen will hit the stage, and we’re told 5:30 A.M., and I am afraid my tired eyes will lose this battle with Father Time.

Old Havana is crumbling,” our guide tells us. “Over one building a day currently collapses in the city, but it’s because of tourism that we’re slowly beginning to rebuild and restore,” he adds. The parts we experience sing of Spain and most of the buildings in the tourist areas are still in good condition.

When we arrive in the tourist-heavy part of Old Havana, it looks just like I had always imagined. I’m standing adjacent to the old lighthouse. Here, a young guard sits reading a book, she brushes her newly dyed red hair out of her eyes and she angles her head up and uses her book as a visor to see the clouds rolling in high above the centuries-old buildings and trees. A wind whips their delicate leaves, and they fall to the cobble-stoned plaza. Still green and still with much more time to be had catching Caribbean sunlight, they become part of the sediment that has held the stone together for centuries. They are pushed farther into the ground by opened-toed tourist sandals belonging to curious visitors and re-smushed by handed-down Nikes belonging to local vendors hawking Che Guavera trinkets. One of the tree’s wide-base roots stretches far across to the El Templete monument and curves, snake-like toward a bust of Christopher Columbus. The branches touch the neo-classical monument gently brushing the façade like a grandmother smoothing the cheek of her new grandchild.

“A storm is coming,” the guard tells me while collecting ten CUCs and placing the bill into her fanny pack. “Just a few minutes,” she says opening up the faded-white doors of El Templete. “I will have to shut the doors if it rains.” Inside El Templete there are three massive floor-to-ceiling canvases by the French painter (who later moved to Cuba) Jean Baptiste Vermay. The exquisite pieces give a first-hand look into the importance of Cuba. They show, and more importantly allow me to feel, the power, wealth, and divinity that came from the establishment of the European New World.

Stepping out from the tomb-like quiet of the monument onto one of the three main squares in Havana, Plaza de Armas, reveals a bustling scene. I manage to make it around to a few vendors at the Second-Hand Book Market, where eager salesmen who are trying to pawn off mostly Spanish-language books about the Revolution quickly surround me. As I settle a deal for a five-CUC paperback of The Old Man and the Sea and an assortment of old prayer cards, I spot a raindrop stream down a graphic novel, Revolucion Cubana. The vendors parachute plastic tarps over their stands with such routine indifference I can only imagine how many times this happens. I stroll with my group around the square. Drop. “It’s just a light drizzle,” we convincingly repeat.

Drop, drop. Through the rain, we dodge into little shops, taking in the local characters, and make our way through two more major plazas. Each reveals an other-worldly, different-time charm. A young girl in an orange quinceñera dress floats out of an old church, her parents snapping photos, as she poses against the beautiful stonework, British boys stumble through centuries-old courtyards with cigars and rum and Cokes, and old women whose dresses are wet and sandals are worn sneak up behind tourists begging for a CUC.

We make it to Plaza Vieja and duck into a microbrewery called Factoria Plaza Vieja and sample the beers made on the premises and watch the lively cast of characters. An old woman dances alone in the rain and is joined by little children, while small dogs step across the cobblestone square and weave through the modern sculpture of a rooster. The once droplets have turned into monsoon-like conditions, and I watch the water flow rapidly through the Old City. “The city has seen much worse,” our guide tells us, reflecting on past hurricanes. Through Spanish columns an image of Che Guvera looks almost dystopian in the near-zero visibility.

The rain luckily subsides, and we are back in Plaza de Armas. The guard, protected by a small umbrella, with near-perfect dry red hair, is still waiting by the monument under dripping leaves. “They say,” Oscar notes, “This tree has been here since the founding of Cuba.” I look up at the branches still moving like a flag from the ocean winds. He takes my hand and places it against the trunk. “See how smooth it is?” he says as I brush my hand against an almost sanded-down ring on its trunk. “Each year, people line up all the way down the street to celebrate the birth of the nation, and we walk around the tree while still touching it,” he says like an old prophet. “Touch the tree and think of a wish, dream, hope, or something you’re thankful for and walk around three times, and with each time drop a coin at the base.”

One. I trace the tree first with my eyes closed thinking hard about a personal wish that I send up through the trunk, and I open my eyes while carefully stepping and see the square as it may have appeared in the beginning and see the hopes and dreams of a colonizing people. Two. I come around again and thank the tree for modern-day Cuba for the people, for their hospitality, and I wish that they too will find answers for the problems that they live with each day. Three. I come around for a final time and think of Cuba’s future, and I thank the tree that I am already a small insignificant part of it.

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